Buried Prejudice: The Bigot in Your Brain. And yet, I have another story of Mr Jackson. Once again, from the ‘80’s. I was coming home late one night from Manhattan, walking through the Princeton University campus from the PJ&B ("Princeton Junction and Back”, the Dinky, the shortest train line in America). I heard a hubbub coming from Whig (or Clio, I never remember which building is which ... the one that was burned, and re-built), and paused under a streetlamp along the wide flagstone walkway. I knew Mr Jackson was going to be speaking there that night, so I wondered whether it might be worth walking to the front of the building. I looked up at the back windows. Mr Jackson walked by a window, and we happened to perceive each other. He saw me slightly backlit, and froze with a look of surprise (I thought fear at the time) on his face. I was dressed in black jeans, black leather jacket, carrying a black briefcase. I looked like a professional assassin out of some movie, in retrospect. His ‘handlers’ peeked out at me, and I thought it was time to beat a hasty retreat, taking a different pathway home.
Sometimes ‘bigotry’ may be plain self-preservation. We unconsciously judge by the predominant cultural archetypes.
Or, simply overactive imagination ... as my 20-something perceptions probably were.
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